


Want

by Talvikuningatar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A tiny bit, Anal Sex, And it's John's first time with a man too, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Sherlock, True Love, Virgin Sherlock, bottomlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-13 22:14:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16027040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talvikuningatar/pseuds/Talvikuningatar
Summary: "You are in me, John. You-you're inside my body."





	Want

**Author's Note:**

> I'm only borrowing the English language, so mistakes happen. I do apologise.

"Oh," Sherlock says, the syllable quivering out between his lips as he sits astride John's hips.

He looks surprised, and John isn't sure why; Sherlock started this, after all. He's supposed to be the one who knows what he's doing – as usual.

( _"Are you sure this is a-"_

_"Do shut up, John. My ideas are always good."_ )

"Are you-" John must pause to swallow, his throat dry, "are you all right?"

Sherlock is so tight around him, so tight and slick and sweet, and John is thankful of Sherlock's weight pinning him down. He's not sure, not sure at all, that he'd have enough self-control not to thrust into the heat surrounding him if he wasn't held immobile by Sherlock on top of him. He's quivering with need, but he must wait.

"I – fine. Yes. Fine." Sherlock shifts his hips, more of an involuntary twitch than anything else, but it causes him to tighten, muscles fluttering, and John sinks his teeth in his lower lip and clutches at the sheets, panting, because god. _God_.

"Does it … hurt?" he manages.

He unclenches his left hand from the sheets and places it on Sherlock's hip, warm skin and hard bone under his unsteady fingers. Sherlock has gone almost entirely soft when he's lowered himself on John, and John wants to touch him, to make him hard again and give him pleasure to make up for whatever discomfort he's feeling. But he needs to know Sherlock isn't hurting first, because if he is, this is going to end, no matter how desperately John _wants_.

He rubs his thumb back and forth across the sharp curve of Sherlock's hipbone, a touch he hopes is comforting, and waits. It seems like the most difficult thing he has ever done. Ridiculous, of course, but he can't remember ever needing something as much as he needs to shove deep into Sherlock and take him and take him and _take him_ until they're both sweaty and shaky and satisfied.

"Nuh-no. Not as – not as such," Sherlock says, finally, and it takes John a moment to remember what he's asked and realise that this is, indeed, the answer he's wanted.

Sherlock shifts again, this time tilting his pelvis on purpose, his body allowing John in a little deeper, and John's right hand shoots up to grip his other hip, forcing him to still. The little control he has over himself is wavering, and it scares him.

"Please don't move yet. God, please don't. Not like that. Jesus. I'm not sure I can…"

"I…" Sherlock swallows, bites his lower lip. His hands are on John's chest, fingers clenched a little, nails digging in. "It's rather … large."

John almost laughs at that. "Yuh-you knew that."

( _"My, my, I seem to have underestimated you, John."_

_"Er, well-"_

_"I **want** it."_ )

"Feels bigger like this. In me." Sherlock breathes in, slow and deep, and slides his hand up John's chest, fingertips tickling at his neck before a warm, large palm cups his cheek. "You are in me, John. You-you're inside my body." His voice is low, almost reverent. It seems as if he can't quite believe it's true.

John lets out a shuddery breath. "Yeah. Yes." He smiles, and for reasons he doesn't quite understand, it feels wobbly.

"I've wanted this," Sherlock whispers. The look on his face is so soft John fears his heart may break. "For so long."

He bends down, movement and heat, and John almost cries out, but then Sherlock's mouth is on his and they're kissing, soft brushes of lips. When John closes his eyes, Sherlock's are still wide open, dilated pupils hiding most of the pale iris. John allows his hand travel up Sherlock's back and over one sharp shoulder blade until his fingers are buried in soft, thick curls. Sherlock makes a sound into their kiss, and then his tongue is parting John's lips and slipping in, and there's nothing else in the world but Sherlock, on top of him, around him, in his mouth, inside his head.

When Sherlock finally pulls back, they're both panting. John blinks his eyes open to find Sherlock looking at him, eyes dark and warm.

"I want you," Sherlock tells him. "I will always want you. This can never be enough." And braces his hands on John's chest and lifts his hips, just a little, before lowering them again, testing the movement. John's hands clench, the left one still in Sherlock's hair, the right one on his hip. He wants too, so much. Too much.

" _God_ ," John moans. "I need to touch you. Can I touch you?"

Sherlock nods and moves his hips again, careful and measured. He's hardening slowly, getting used to the invasion and stretch, and John allows his hand to fall from Sherlock's hair and reach between his legs.

The moment his fingers touch heated skin, Sherlock tightens around him and lets out a helpless, shuddering cry. John wants to hear that again, so he slides his hand along the hardening flesh, slow, up and down, twisting a little at the tip. The angle is awkward and unfamiliar, but every movement he makes causes Sherlock to let out a faint sound of pleasure, so he thinks he must be doing fine.

Sherlock starts picking up the pace, his narrow hips rising higher each time, and he's the most beautiful thing John has ever seen. He's fully hard in John's grip now, and his every exhalation ends in a low moan. John must bite his own lip hard enough to hurt to keep quiet; he doesn't want to miss a single noise Sherlock makes, wants to hear them all and drown in them.

"John," Sherlock sighs, "oh, John." His hands are roaming over John's chest and shoulders, touching every square inch of skin he can reach, as if he's trying to memorise the texture and the shape of muscle and bone underneath. "Is it … is it good? God, please, say it's good."

"Perfect," John chokes out. "It's – you're – I'll never want anyone else."

"Good." Sherlock leans forward again, his spine curving down until his forehead is touching John's, and still his hips keep moving, up and down and then a little grinding circle that makes John gasp aloud. "I wouldn't let you."

( _"This, you, it all belongs to me. Say it."_

_"Sherlock…"_

_"Say it. Say you're mine and I'll touch you."_

_"Yes. Please, yes, yours – ah! Sherlock-!"_ )

There's nothing John can say to that, so he tilts his chin up and brings their lips together, and Sherlock gasps into his mouth and kisses him back, his hips moving on John at the same pace as his tongue thrusts into John's mouth. They're as close as two people can be, in and around each other, skin against sweaty skin, and John understands what Sherlock meant by this never being enough.

Sherlock breaks the kiss and pulls back, breathing hard. There's a dark curl stuck to his forehead with sweat, his lips are swollen and his cheeks flushed, and John realises he's the first person to see Sherlock like this.

And if he doesn't ruin this, he'll be the last too, and that thought breaks something in him. His hand squeezes Sherlock's side harder and he bucks up, into him, as deep as he can go. Sherlock hisses, his mouth dropping open, and then he straightens, the roll of his hips rougher now, more desperate.

John tries to keep his hand moving on Sherlock in time with the rise and fall of his body, struggles to thrust up when Sherlock sinks down so that they meet in the middle. Sherlock leans back and braces his hands on John's thighs, and John's left hand skims up Sherlock's side, the skin smooth and sweat-slick under his touch.

When Sherlock arches his back, eyes sliding closed, John can tell that they've found the right spot. The one that makes him clench and moan, the one they found earlier, both of their fingers reaching deep inside Sherlock.

( _"How does it feel?"_

_"Good, it's good, John, just a little deeper, crook your finger – there, there!"_ )

"God," Sherlock whispers. "So _good_."

He looks wild, his head thrown back and mouth open, chest heaving as he rides John. His hardness is slippery under John's fingers, and he's only chasing his own pleasure now, moving frantically between John inside and around him. Seeing it, seeing Sherlock like that, feels like a gift, like a promise.

"Close," Sherlock chokes out. "John, I'm-" He opens his eyes and meets John's. "I – I, John, _please_ -!"

John swallows hard and tightens his grip, shoving himself up into Sherlock, blindingly deep, and Sherlock arches and cries out, twisting and convulsing. His hips lose their rhythm, but he doesn't stop moving, and that's enough for John. He strokes Sherlock through it as he thrust up again and again, and then all that's left is white-hot pleasure and Sherlock's name on his lips.

Sherlock slumps down on top of him and buries his face in John's neck. The shift of his hips makes John slip out of him, and he hisses against John's skin. There seems to be a rather lot of wetness spread between them, but John finds it hard to care.

"That was… John, that was…"

He doesn't seem to have the words yet, and John can't blame him. "It was," he agrees, his voice hoarse, and turns his head enough to nuzzle Sherlock's hair. Sherlock sighs against his neck and squeezes him close.

He wants this too, John realises as he lets his hand slide up Sherlock's back and into the sweaty curls at the nape of his neck, wants closeness and gentle warmth; as lovely as friction and burning heat are, they only last for a moment. This can last so much longer.

This can last forever, John thinks.

He very much wants forever, and that scares him a little. Not enough to stop wanting, though.

They lie like that for a while until Sherlock begins to stir. He props himself up on one elbow and he's looking at John with such tenderness that John's heart stutters in his chest.

"I meant it," John says before he has a chance to regret it. It's hard to breathe. "Everything I said, I meant it." He wants to tell Sherlock more, but the words aren't coming, so he tries to smile. It feels shaky, brittle, but it must be good enough, because Sherlock smiles back.

And if his smile is a little watery, John doesn't call him out on it.

( _"John, I think you should know that I – I-"_

_"I know, Sherlock. I - I do too. You."_

_"Oh."_ )


End file.
